


What A Pretty Girl You Make

by TenYearMan



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: F/M, Feminization, Fluff, Lingerie, M/M, Multi, PWP, everything is consentual -thumbs up-, gratuitous descriptions of putting on makeup, kylo in lingerie
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-15
Updated: 2016-07-15
Packaged: 2018-07-24 03:15:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7491225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TenYearMan/pseuds/TenYearMan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>It'd been easy at the time to admit that once, or twice, or a dozen handful of times he had donned a crude caricature of femininity just to feel <b>pretty</b>. </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	What A Pretty Girl You Make

**Author's Note:**

> For a lovely anon over on Tumblr. I am not done, there is more, but here is part one. Enjoy!

“Oh, he’s going to  _ love  _ this when he comes in.” 

Kylo can only hope so. Over the course of the last three hours, since the end of Beta shift, in fact, he’s been trussed and plucked and smoothed, his body a blank canvas for the brush of the Captain’s liner and the tug of her tweezers. His patience had run out less than ten minutes in - and that had been long before Phasma had even brought out the wax.

His legs are smooth now, soft and hairless and pockmarked with occasional scars under a thin, shimmery scrap of the satin stockings Phasma had procured from who-knew-where. They fit him perfectly, though, and he's had his hands slapped away more than once whenever his fingers had drifted towards the fabric in his embarrassment-tinged boredom.

Now Phasma flicks him - just enough to get his attention - and tips his chin up to apply the final touches, pursing her own mouth in a mockery of the expression he’s supposed to make in order to have the lipstick go on 'right.’ Kylo mimics her and tries not to lick the waxy substance as it goes onto his mouth, two spots of color settling high on his cheeks when they make accidental eye contact.

“What a pretty girl you make.”

A strangled little sound escapes him at the veiled compliment, at the way Phasma's eyes shine something wicked as she watches him, easing the lipstick away so it won’t smear somewhere it isn’t supposed to. She doesn’t even need to look down to see how words as simple as that affect him.

“What a pretty girl you  _ are _ . I'd mess you all up myself, but I think we should wait until he gets here.”

This whole thing had been orchestrated by the General after all, and it would be cruel to deny him first dibs though Kylo had been the one to out himself one night when his tongue had been loose and his cock spent.

It'd been easy at the time to admit that once, or twice, or a dozen handful of times he had donned a crude caricature of femininity just to feel  _ pretty _ . There was something about his face, something in those weird angles and the androgynous pout of his lips that was all wrong, that made him want to see what he'd look like in one extreme when his body exemplified the other, muscles and tree-trunk thighs as he was. Or maybe he was just fucked up in the head. He didn't want to dwell and Hux's silence suggested the latter more than the former. He'd been glad at the time that Phasma hadn't been there to hear any of it.

Four day cycles and a game in which Ren avoided Hux at all costs resulted in her coming to him personally anyway, blank-wrapped package in hand and expression concealed by chrome. “Join us, when you're done being a fool,” she’d spoken, tone clipped and mocking. Hux had told her. He had to have. She wouldn't of sounded so amused, like Ren's personal shame was the source of a very funny joke.

The package she had left behind, pushing it onto him in an empty hallway.

Fifteen minutes later and in the privacy of his personal quarters, he'd shed his outermost layers, his mask, his gloves, and tore into the wrapping, curiosity clawing at him.

He shouldn't of been surprised, honestly.  
 _Hurt_ , yes, that Hux and Phasma had taken it this far. The anger had surged forth unbidden, explosive and violent as it was wont to be when wielded by a man like Kylo Ren. 

He’d taken the ruined scraps with him when he went, leaving his personal quarters in tatters and torn electrical wires sparking dangerously in his wake, and when Hux’s door hissed open before him, didn’t hesitate to make his presence known, storming through with the Force crackling around him like so much built-up static.

“What is  _ this _ ?”

They had been in the lounge, no doubt laughing about Kylo’s misfortune, when the torn scrap of lace was presented, pulled unceremoniously from inside his robe and dropped in a sad heap on the low table between them.

Hux raised a brow at it and Phasma had only frowned, reaching for the panties and stockings she had some time before handed over to Ren.

“ _ This _ , Lord Ren,” she drawled once the fabric was as smoothed out as it was going to get, “was  _ expensive _ . Did you even try it on?”

“Why, so that you could laugh at me?” Behind the vocoder, he’d been a mess, choking back some unseemly noise that would have served only as more fodder for them to tease. He knew a cruel joke when he saw one, and it took every ounce of effort in his bones not to leave Hux’s sitting room the same way he’d left his own, fists clenched at his sides and the leather of his gloves squeaking against itself.

“Oh, you idiot.” It was Hux that broke the silence, plucking the torn lingerie from where it rested on Phasma’s lap and appraising it like it was fresh out of the package, fingers trailing gentle over soft fabric and toying idly with the holes. He stood, side-stepping the table on his way to Ren, which was dangerous and stupid,  _ stupid  _ -

The crackle of energy swelled when they were nose-to-mask, but Hux hardly reacted. He’d never been cowed by Ren’s tantrums, and he clearly wasn’t about to start now as he pushed the fabric against the front of Ren’s robes, rolling his eyes towards the ceiling.

“Phasma wanted to see if it looked as good on you as I thought it would,” he drawled, pushing against Kylo’s sternum until Kylo had no choice but to lift a hand up and press it over Hux’s, catching the lingerie between them. He was still scowling under the mask, but it didn’t come quite as easy now, twisted by confusion and the creeping realization that _ Hux wasn’t lying _ . 

“Oh.”

“ _ Oh _ .” Hux managed to drip condescension with little more than a syllable, easing his hand out from under Kylo’s but leaving the scraps. “And you’ve gone and ruined it. Those cost credits, Kylo, and time spent digging up your measurements from within the medical files - which, by the way, need to be updated.” Maker only knew when the last time Ren had gone through a proper physical was. “That’s no matter, though. We’ll try again. Hopefully next time we’ll get to see you in them  _ before  _ they’re torn to bits.”

And that is how they find themselves here, with ‘ _ pretty girl’  _ whispered to a symphony of keening whines and nail polish in shades of plum drying far too slowly.

Phasma fills in his brows - as if they need to be any darker - and kisses his jaw before fishing around for a liner pencil. Kylo, in what is no surprise to anyone, isn’t helpful at all. He flinches and twitches and huffs while she pinches his chin between her fingers and carefully traces his waterline, then the top lid, smudging the khol out with the tip of a cotton swab until it is perfectly ‘smoky,’ whatever that means. Kylo doesn’t pretend like he understands, and he has to be verbally reminded that he’s wearing makeup. The urge to reach up and rub it off is very nearly overwhelming.

Phasma, as though sensing his intent, smacks his hand away again and clicks her tongue like one might towards a particularly unruly dog. They’re still not done here. There’s still hair to do - dark tangles that need to be combed out and smoothed back and woven with thin, silver chains into delicate princess braids that are swept out of his face and pinned off at the back.

The chains don’t stop there, either. They’re wrapped around his throat and dangled from his arms and draped across his shoulders. It feels like miles of finery, and Kylo for the first time wonders how much one night of indulging his flighty whims had cost Hux, and whether or not it would even be worth it, in the end.

He doesn’t have much longer to wait. Phasma finishes, presenting him finally with a wide, square box that has been sitting off to the side all evening. Kylo knows what’s inside already, but it doesn’t stop anxiety - or perhaps impatience - from crawling up his spine as he eases the lid off, revealing a pair of pumps that take his already impressive height and rocket it up to something  _ obscene _ . They’re dark and glossy, with a skinny, skinny heel that looks like it might snap if he so much as thinks about putting weight on it. Kylo swallows thickly, his throat suddenly dry, and meets Phasma’s eye before he has a chance to lose his resolve, cheeks already burning an impressive red.

“ _I’ve_ _never-_ ”

“No one’s asking you to run laps in them. I’ll help you.”

He nods, the spell of uncertainty broken by her nonchalant response, and that’s that. Phasma takes them out, one at a time, and when she curls her fingers around each of his ankles it feels ritualistic. The toe pinches, but it’s a good kind of pain, and the strap she buckles around his ankle digs into his skin when she helps him stand on wobbly legs, one arm around his waist and fingers teasing at the elastic that’s sat low on his hips. Kylo isn’t sure he can take any steps successfully, but with Phasma guiding him, they make it through the bedroom and into the fresher.

His first, right and proper look at himself makes Kylo’s breath catch somewhere at the back of his throat, a sharp inhale punctuated by a choked-off little noise the only indication that he’s not gone and swallowed his own tongue.

On his right, Phasma grins at their reflection, and her fingers trail over the small of his back, pausing where the skin dimples just above his tailbone. “We’re not quite done yet, darling. Hux had a few  _ suggestions  _ for your outfit.”

Kylo can only imagine what kinds of suggestions are involved, but he follows her with his gaze as she steps out before turning back to the mirror. His hands curl around the edge of the sink, keeping him steady while he looks his carefully-painted face over. The lipstick is perfect; a dark, purple color that makes his pale skin stand out paler, it outlines the soft pout of his mouth and doesn’t taste like much of anything at all when he carefully teases his tongue along the edge of color, pressing his lips together again to cover up the accidental smudge he’s made. His eyes are lined in black. His lashes are thick and long, and the shadow Phasma has put on him makes his eyes wider, his expression all the more  _ puppish _ , as Hux might say.

He’s not svelte, or delicate; he doesn’t have breasts, but the reflection that stares back at him is undeniably effeminate, if he ignores the way the front of the panties he’s wearing tent obscenely, soft fabric rubbing against his shaft and a damp patch already staining the front.

There’s no curves to speak of, but it seems that Phasma has a plan for that. She returns shortly after, a strip of fabric draped over one arm that Kylo quickly realizes is, in fact, a waist cincher, made of the same material as his garter belt with laces up the back that will give him the curves he lacks. His throat is dry, and he says nothing when Phasma wraps it around him, deft fingers working the hook-and-eye clasps along the front until it’s all done up.

It’s still loose around his waist, but already Kylo can feel the vertical boning press into his skin. Behind him, Phasma takes the laces in her hand, and Kylo gets to watch his waist slim, gets to watch the curve as it develops along his flank, concave and  _ soft _ . He can’t keep himself from touching; his fingers drift to the fabric, to where the dip in his waist is most severe.

Phasma doesn’t chase him off, this time. She’s busy tightening the laces behind him until she’s satisfied, and it isn’t until she starts to tie them off that Kylo makes his first noise, choking out a strangled -

“ _ More _ ,”

\- like he can actually handle it.

Phasma tuts behind him and ties a neat bow, ignoring his thinly-veiled demand.

“Next time,” she assures, sleeking one palm over his side until their hands meet, fingers tangle. She turns him around, and while he’s significantly taller than her now, he can’t help but feel small and fragile under her gaze. Her thumbs tease under the silky fabric to trace his hipbones and Kylo has to reach back and brace himself against the sink, knees weak.

Phasma doesn’t linger too long. Kylo thinks it’s because she’s tempted - because  _ he’s tempting _ \- but it could just as easily be because they’re on some kind of schedule. Hux will be returning soon, and she still has a bit of perfume to dab onto his throat. She leads him out of the fresher - he can’t get over how  _ tight  _ the cincher feels; it’s difficult to breathe, but Kylo likes that - and helps him onto the bed, spreading him artfully among the dark pillows until he feels positively  _ whorish _ .

“Sweet girl; you look so pretty,” she murmurs, brushing a stubbornly errant lock of hair out of his forehead. Even trussed up, there’s some parts of him that refuse to cooperate. Phasma doesn’t seem to care, though. She kisses his nose - quite possibly the only part of him that hasn’t been worked over with makeup or carefully-draped in finery - then shifts away once he’s spread like a veritable feast, leaning back on the pillows with his legs splayed lewdly and one knee drawn up to show off the muscle of his thigh. A bottle of lube clicks on the nightstand beside him - for later - before Phasma disappears as well, ducking into the fresher to strip and run through the sonic.

When she returns, she’s changed out of her underthings, sporting a matching pair of lace panties and a bra. Both are black, both leave little to the imagination; her nipples peek through the flimsy fabric and make Kylo’s mouth run dry.

He reaches for her when she approaches, fingers ghosting over the belt around her waist - the same black as the rest - that seems to be there for little more than appearance. She’s slicked her hair back and lined her own lids in black, mouth a slash of ruby red that Kylo wants to kiss.

Phasma, of course, doesn’t let him. Instead, she trails a hand up the inside of his thigh, to the soft, sensitive skin of his groin, then back again, settling in beside him to wait however long it took for the General to finish his business and join them.

Kylo hopes he likes it as much as she seems to.

Phasma assures him, her mouth against his ear while they relax against the cushions and she leaves the faintest smudges of red against his skin.

**Author's Note:**

> [Come chat with me on my tumblr ♥♥ ](http://tenyearsexperienceman.tumblr.com/)


End file.
